The Collective Groan
by motchi
Summary: A grab bag of drabbles and ficlets featuring various characters and pairings. Next up: Vincent/Tifa
1. Vincent's phobias are irrational

**AN:** Written for **hime_luna** and previously published at my LiveJournal. I suppose you _could_ say it belongs in _The Path To Redemption_-verse.

**Prompt:** Vincent/Tifa, _irrational phobias_.

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**Vincent's irrational phobias are crunchy.**

"Eat up," she said.

Vincent looked at the plate Tifa set down before him and swallowed, though it wasn't in anticipation. Across from him, Denzel was tearing into his dinner with gusto, even managing an "I think this is my favorite, Tifa" somewhere between bites. Next to him, Marlene was dividing her portion into similar categories.

"Why, hello, Mrs. Pea. How are you? I'm fine, Mrs. Other Pea," she was saying. "As long as Mr. Chicken and Mr. Potato Chip stay over on that side of the plate tonight."

And that was the source of his problem. Peas, chicken and _potato chips_? Vincent grimaced.

Unfortunately, with her fork halfway to her mouth, Tifa caught it. "Something wrong, Vincy?"

"Not at all," he lied.

Tifa smiled. "Good. Eat up before it gets cold."

Vincent barely suppressed a shudder. _Cold_ peas, chicken and _potato chips_ would be even worse. He looked around the dinner table in desperation. Where was the bread tonight? Why no wine? Dear gods, as much as he was fond of Tifa and her cooking, he wasn't going to be able to choke down the travesty disguised as a "casserole" without some help.

Beside him, Marlene continued to talk to her food. "Yum, yum, Mr. Potato Chip! You are yummy!"

Somewhere, a part of Vincent's brain managed a weak laugh.

"Vincent, something is wrong," Tifa hissed at his shoulder. "You have to tell me now. What's wrong with you?"

"It's, ah...nothing," he said. But when Tifa's eyebrow shot up, he added, "Nothing but an irrational phobia."

"Irrational phobia?" Tifa echoed. Vincent thought he detected a shrillness in her voice that hadn't been there before. "Irrational phobia! Of what—my dinner?"

Yes, but he was a dead man if he said it. Clearly Tifa was getting upset, and even Marlene and Denzel were sending looks of censure his way. "My fork," he said lamely. "My fork had a spot on it."

"Your fork?" Denzel looked away in disgust.

"Shame on Mr. Fork!"

"That's all? A dirty fork?" The expression on Tifa's face was a mix of concern and skepticism. "Why didn't you say so earlier? Here, I'll get you a new, _clean_—"

She rose from her chair but Vincent grabbed her hand and pulled her back down. "That won't be necessary, because I can—" He made a show of wiping the supposedly offensive utensil on his shirt. "Phobia, ah, cured."

"Good!" Tifa turned back to her plate. "Now, eat up, Vincy."

_Eat up, Vincy_. "Right."

Under the table's watchful eyes, he took a brave forkful and closed his mouth around it. The chicken and peas were excellent, but... _Crunch_. Vincent's jaw stopped working.

Beside him, Marlene beamed. "Isn't Mr. Potato Chip yummy?"

This time all of Vincent's brain joined in the weak laugh.

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Comments are appreciated!


	2. Cloud's got something to say

**AN:** Written for **bofoddity** and previously published at my LiveJournal.

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**Cloud's got something to say.  
**

"Heroes fight alone," he says, walking into an empty church.

He comes here to brood.

He'd like to be thanked sometimes, he sometimes thinks. It might make the dreams a little less red, and a little more blue-green or yellow-orange or some other happy-optimistic color. _Thanks for saving the world_, he'd like to hear. _Thanks for making things all better and stop by for coffee next Monday._ It might be nice, he thinks, to be that simple. _It might be nice to think I deserve it._ Because it took three to bring down one, he remembers, _and heroes fight alone_.

He comes here to avoid.

He should confess something here, he thinks. How he hides. How he lies. How he cowers. How he fails. _How I was never afraid of heights until I was put on this pedestal. _He should confess, but he talks to flowers instead, and punishes them for the way he's very sorry. He says,_ You and you and you and you and you. I wish I was better. I wish I was sorrier. _And when he's done, the plucked petals lay at his feet like corpses.

He comes here to suffer.

He doesn't have to do it on the side of a road or behind a locked bathroom door any more. The black syrup of so many sins drips from his arm onto a pew and reminds him of how ugly he's become. He wants to smear it in his hair and become someone else. He wants to run far, far, far away. He wants her to stop looking at him_ like I'm somebody you believe in_. Because one day, she might be a petal—_they all might be petals_—and he wants desperately for her to be someone he doesn't have to pull from the stem. He wants her to be home again.

"But heroes fight alone," he says.

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Comments are appreciated!


	3. Normal is just a word

**AN:** Written for **bofoddity** and previously published at my LiveJournal. You could probably put it in the _First Dates_-verse.

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**Normal is just a word.  
**

She said she wanted 'normal,' but Rude only knew that word as a black-tie-on-white-shirt word. His normal would never fit in hers, he knew. He didn't even own a sword.

So he took her to the beach, flew her across the sea so she could bury ten toes in the sand and laugh at the waves. It wasn't a bike ride or a white suit, he thought, but at least his sunglasses fit.

It wasn't until later, on a noisy front stoop, as she tucked her fingers under black lapels, that Tifa would whisper to him, "This is what I meant. Normal."

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Comments are appreciated!


	4. Sunglasses aren't just for leading men

**AN:** Written for **ricemouse** and previously published at my LiveJournal. Special thanks to **bofoddity** for the noir idea.

**Prompt:** Tifa/Rude, _drinks at a smoky bar _(Yeah, I've got problems following prompts.)_  
_

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**Sunglasses aren't just for leading men.**

People sometimes ask you what the world looks like from behind dark glasses. Usually you stare until they mumble an excuse to leave. When _she_ asks you, you don't know what to say. The beer in your hand suddenly becomes too slippery to hold. You set the bottle down on the bar and you try not to stare—because the last thing you want is her leaving—and you think.

What's the world look like? The truth is long and complicated and makes you thankful she turns the house lights down after ten. You're blushing, but you want to tell her. You want to tell her you "have a thing" for old movies. You want to tell her the word "gumshoe" makes you laugh. You want it all to come spilling out. You want her to know that behind your sunglasses the world is a monochromatic, wide-screened Friday night feature, and it's you, Rude, who gets top billing, not the guy trying to make up for a short man's complex with a bike and a dozen swords.

You want to tell her in your world, you're leading man material and she's more than just a bartender with tired feet and a dimmed spark. The two of you are mysteries, noirs, swells of music and snappy dialogues. You're a hat, a trenchcoat, a guy walking into her joint all hard-edged and silent. She's a dame, all curves and codeword smiles, a slow-angle-tilt-to-the-camera. She's Fire Engine Red lipstick; you're the guy who smears it. _We're destiny, sweetheart_—you want to tell her this, then you want to take her in your arms and kiss her through the credits.

But you don't. The real leading man is standing behind her, watching, and you're not even an understudy. You're just you. You overpay for your one beer and get up from your stool. You pretend you don't see her disappointment, then you walk away, out into the rain-washed streets of the city where your own disappointment sits like a bad taste on your tongue.

Because behind dark glasses, the world is a beautiful scene, but deep down inside you know it's yours, not hers.

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Comments are appreciated!


	5. The color of envy isn't green

**AN:** Written for the OTP War hosted at my Livejournal. Once again, I suppose you _could_ say it belongs in _The Path To Redemption_-verse.

**Prompt:** Vincent/Tifa, _Marlene, lipstick, and Vincent's face_.

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**The color of envy isn't green.  
**

The door to Seventh Heaven opens as Cloud approaches it. A short red cape blocks him, briefly.

Cloud nods an acknowledgment. "Vincent."

"Cloud," Vincent says, and returns the nod. As he brushes past, his cowl slips down long enough for Cloud to see Vincent's either been in the strawberries again or smacked hard by Tifa. Once inside, after he's closed the door behind him, Cloud laughs to himself at the thought of both.

The first floor of Seventh Heaven is empty—Tifa's usual spot behind the bar deserted—but Cloud's not surprised. It's four in the afternoon and the dinner crowd won't start trickling in for another hour. Time enough for a quick shower, he thinks, and heads upstairs.

He finds Tifa in the bathroom, standing at the sink and scowling into the mirror. She jumps when she hears him in the doorway, then laughs weakly and starts wiping at her face with a hand towel.

Cloud frowns. "What happened? Something wrong?" he asks.

"Oh. It's nothing," she mumbles from behind the towel. "Marlene thought it would be fun to play make-up today. Whole works...shadow...liner...mascara...even lipstick."

"Oh yeah?" Cloud's intrigued. He rarely sees Tifa in lip gloss, let alone— "Lipstick?"

"Mmhmm. Cheap stuff. Already thrown it out. Smears like crazy and hard to get off. See?" Tifa moves the towel and points to her mouth.

Cloud does see. She looks like she's either been in the strawberries or—

"Did, uh, Marlene happen to put any of that stuff on Vincent?" Cloud asks.

"Vincent? You've got to be kidding," Tifa says. She makes a few passes with the towel again, then laughs as she examines her still-ruddy mouth in the mirror. "Can you imagine?" she asks.

But Cloud finds he doesn't have to. He's already seeing red.

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Comments are appreciated!


	6. Human

**AN:** Originally written for **avathar904**'s prompt: "Platonic, Red and Vincent; and what it means to be human."

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**Human.**

"They look so human when they're not trying to kill you," Red observes.

Behind his cowl, Vincent makes a sound that neither agrees nor disagrees.

"Nothin' human ever works for Shin-Ra," Barret cuts in, grim and unsmiling. "And if they aren't human, it don't hurt to kill 'em. Remember that."

Barret's lips jerk as he repeats it over and over to himself like a mantra. Lost in the burns and prejudices of the past, he misses the quiet look that passes between the cat and the ex-Turk.


	7. Obsession has a sound

**AN:** Originally written for **blueshinra**'s Aerith/Tseng post during the OTP war held at my now-defunct LiveJournal.

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**Obsession has a sound.  
**

There was a faucet that used to haunt his nights when he was a boy.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

It was a counterpart to the buzz of insects outside his window, an incessant beat tapping on the doors to his ears. His dreams were dissonant and often loud enough to call his father.

_She's weeping_, his father would say.

_Who is weeping, Father? Who is weeping?_ Tseng would want to know.

_Gaia is weeping,_ his father would answer. _She is weeping for the day to come back to her. Go to sleep, Tseng._

_

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_

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

_She is weeping again, Father,_ he wants to say.

But this time Gaia is a woman, a perfect, petal-pink song that haunts his nights as a man. Tseng sits outside her door and listens to it.

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Comments are appreciated!


	8. Dead birds aren't just punchlines

**AN:** Originally written for **Sixth Night**'s prompt: "It just died? Won't even turn over? Cid! You're the mechanic...kind of. Fix it!"

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**Dead birds aren't just punchlines.**

A fly buzzed around his ear, despite his best efforts to swat it. There was at least ten days' worth of itchy stubble on his face. His shirt stuck to his back and reeked of sand and himself. But the mess at his feet, more than anything, reminded him of why he hated deserts.

"It just died? Won't even turn over? Cid! You're the mechanic...kind of. Fix it!"

And why he now hated chocobos.

"Mechanic, Tifa," Cid said, "not fuckin' bird vet. And even if I was, there ain't no fixing this." He kicked at the unmoving body with the scuffed toe of a boot. Not even a wark.

The frown on Tifa's face said she might argue, that she might spout some nonsense about Cloud knowing what to do in this situation, and Cid braced himself for a lengthy and assuredly asinine debate. But Tifa merely set her jaw and steered her frown to where the sun was melting into the horizon.

Cid's eyebrows raised, but he put aside his surprise to follow her gaze and train of thought. It would be at least ten miles, according to his estimate, until they reached the Gold Saucer. Also, night was coming; temperatures were dropping. Tifa's skin—more than adequately exposed, thanks to the cockamamie outfit she insisted on wearing—was already getting a goosepimply look to it.

"So what are we going to do?" Tifa asked, eyes still locked on the horizon.

Cid shrugged. "We walk, I guess. Unless you can summon a goddamned ship."

"Of course I can't, so let's get going," she said, so matter-of-factly and business-like that Cid's brows rose again, then she bent down to the chocobo to fumble with the straps of their pack. When it was clear she was having a tough time with the buckles trapped under the heavy body, Cid knelt to help her, and what followed were several awkward incidents of bumped sides and tangled fingers.

Tifa finally stood and said, more breathy than exasperated, "You do it, Cid. I'm only getting in the way!"

Cid held his grin until the pack was free and he was shouldering it. "Damn thing's a thorn even when it's dead, isn't it?" he said.

She glared down at it as she rubbed her bare arms. "I've always hated chocobos," Tifa admitted.

"Cold?" Cid untied the jacket from his waist and held it open to her. "Here, take it. I don't need it."

Tifa threaded her arms through the sleeves with a "Thanks!" then lingered with a shy, almost-flirtatious glint in her eye and said, "But, you know, unless you have an extra pair of pants, I might have to steal some heat from you. Do you mind?"

"Course not," he replied, tucking her under an arm as they started their hike toward civilization. When her hip bumped his leg, Cid told himself the heat in his cheeks had to be from a sunburn—goddammit, he was too old to be blushing. But with any luck, maybe it would be _fifteen_ miles to the Gold Saucer.

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**AN:** Yes, I'm a Python fan.


	9. Better late than never

**AN:** Written for **Anshu** and her prompt: "Rufus/Tifa, 'No Thanks! I Eat Alone.'"

Since I don't have _First Dates_ or _Reading Between the Headlines_ up, I made this a little more universe-generic. But I suppose you could put it in the _Headlines_-verse if you want. Still post-Advent Children.

* * *

**Better late than never.**

"What did she say?"

"'No thanks! I eat alone,'" Reno answered, batting his eyelashes, shrugging. "Maybe she's in a bad mood or something, boss. She _does_ live with Strife."

Rufus said nothing. But his eyes stayed on the outdoor cafe table across the street and the woman who sat at it reading for so long that Reno felt compelled to ask, "Do you want me to try again, boss?"

Rufus sighed. "No." He leaned heavily on the cane in his left hand as he turned to leave. "It's just as I suspected: Forgiveness and healing...they ride the same bloody slow train."

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Comments are appreciated!


	10. There was a man, a woman and a birthday

**AN:** Originally written for **avathar904**'s prompt: Vincent/Tifa, "Clever girl."

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**There was a man, a woman and a birthday.**

There was a cake, some candles, a "Make a wish, Vinny!" and an extremely annoyed look.

There was a smirk, a guffaw, a cigarette-laced "Hurry up, Valentine, I'm starving," and a meaningful glance for the hostess before the flames danced out.

There was a soft laugh, a deep blush, a "Happy Birthday...Vincent," and the hint of an interested smile.

There was some slicing, some plates being passed around, a "Where's the ice cream?" and a shared look being broken.

There was an embarrassed cough, a cleared throat, an "Oh, in the kitchen. Would you mind helping me, Vincent?" and an innocent expression.

There was the sound of a scraping chair, the rustling of clothing, a "Not at all, Tifa," and a casual walk to the back room.

There was a rush to a shadowed corner, a glance at the doorway, a "Clever girl," and the stepping into impatient arms.

There was sweet laughter, a husky chuckle, a "Here's your wish," and then a kiss.

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Comments are appreciated!


	11. Men were the first domesticated animals

**AN:** Originally written for **zelda6** eons ago, before _Impressions_ was a twinkle in my eye. It's been languishing on my harddrive because I didn't know what to do with it, nor had the will to finish it, until recently, when I spoke with an old friend, one of the original Zack/Tifa fans here at ffnet.

Two things I should warn you about: Writing Sephiroth/Tifa angst for all these months has made me rusty at comedy and Zack—I apologize in advance. Also, I still stand by what I said before: The _Impressions_ that was here before will never appear here again. That doesn't mean I can't return to that universe every once in a while though. Especially since Eliot and The Karol have been begging for a visit.

For **zelda6** and **soda-cola-pop**.

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**Men were the first domesticated animals.**

Though summers in Gongaga meant days hot and sticky enough to put wet rings in the armpits of Zack's shirt, Tifa still insisted on using the oven.

Fortunately, there was no time to dissect it. Zack had just made it through the front door, relieved to finally be home after a long day at work, only to have a biscuit-gumming baby thrust into his arms by a wife who seemed both relieved and irritated to see him.

"You're late," Tifa said. "And now _I'm_ late. Do you know what day today is?"

Sure, he knew. It was Tuesday. Tuesdays were a water cooler recap of Monday night's korfball match, Zack thought, eyeing Tifa's tank top and tight shorts appreciatively. Then he noticed the gym bag hanging from her shoulder and remembered what else Tuesdays meant. Whoops.

"Ryder," Zack said, using his son, who was busy gnawing at a chubby fist, as an excuse to avoid her eyes. "I'm pretty sure whatever that was is gone by now, buddy."

Tifa sighed and pried Ryder's fingers open. "No, he's still got some left. Listen, there's a casserole in the oven right now. Take it out in ten minutes and let it sit for five." She moved what was left of the teething cookie to the edge of the baby's hand and closed his fingers around it. "Did you hear me, Zack?"

"Yeah, yeah. Ten minutes, sit for five."

"Don't forget, or you'll both be eating burnt chicken." Tifa jabbed a finger at his chest. "And _don't_ forget to turn the oven off this time."

"Hey!" Zack rubbed at the spot where she had poked him. "It was only that one time. I had it under control, but the neighbors decided to overreact anyway."

Tifa blinked at him. "It was twice, and the second time involved the fire department." She glanced at her watch. "Oh, damn. I gotta go, or all the good bikes'll be taken for sure."

Zack followed her to the door. "Sorry about being late and all. Hope you don't have to sit in back and stare at butts all night, since, you know, you'll be staring at mine once you get back."

She stopped with her hand on the doorknob. Grinning, Zack waited for her snappy reply, but the look Tifa turned on him was one of regret. "Look, I know we've been so busy lately...what, with tax time and my job and the baby. Let's try and make some time for us tonight, without bothering your parents to babysit. Once Ryder goes down for the night, how about a bottle of wine and a massage. Sound good?"

It sounded more than good. She was right; it _had_ been a while. "Can't wait," Zack said. Then he looked down at their son, who, though occupied with his fist, looked anything but tired. "And I guess I'll have to wear him out, won't I? If he goes down fast enough, will this evening also include that little scrap of lace I got you for your birthday?"

She laughed. "Mmm, possibly. Are you wanting to see the fruit of all these spinning classes?"

"Hell, I just want to see _you_," he said. "Clothing is always optional."

"Just make sure he gets a bath first," Tifa said dryly. "Mommy's leaving, Ry-Boy." She pressed her lips into the baby's dark hair, the only thing not covered in cookie debris, made smooching noises, then aimed her mouth at Zack.

He stopped her with a hand. "An adult one, please. And with liberal use of the tongue."

She gave him a perfunctory kiss on the mouth. "Later. Save it for later." She yanked open the front door and adjusted the gym bag strap on her shoulder. "Okay, I'm outta here. Love you, boys!"

"Say bye to Mommy, Ryder." Zack wrestled his son's hand away from his mouth long enough to manipulate it in a waving motion. He watched until Tifa's car was at the end of their street before pushing the front door shut.

The house was still dreadfully hot and his shirt slightly damp. Ryder's hand was back in his mouth. In the quietness that followed, Zack looked at his son thoughtfully.

"I don't suppose you remember when she said to take dinner out of the oven, do you?"

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Comments are appreciated!


	12. The color of envy isn't green (r2)

**AN:** Written for **C. Nichole **as an embarrassingly long overdue gift. Once again, I suppose you _could_ say it belongs in _The Path To Redemption_-verse.

**Prompt:** Vincent/Tifa, _Herbal Tea_.

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**The color of envy isn't green.  
(round t****wo)  
**

When he calls her after lunch, she sounds like he's interrupted something. When he asks her what she's in the middle of, he hears, "Herbal tea...with, um, Vincent."

Normally he'd feel sorry for Vincent—Cloud _thinks_ they're still friends, after all—but the little giggle before she hangs up has him wondering. He starts up his bike and heads home immediately.

On a good day this route takes him forty-five minutes; today it takes him thirty. He enters Seventh Heaven and sees Vincent on his way out. As they nod to each other, Cloud searches Vincent's face for signs of cheap lipstick. Seeing none, he says "Later" at Vincent's "Farewell" then chuckles to himself when he catches a whiff of chamomile as the front door closes.

He finds Tifa on the stairs, coming down as he's going up. She's clutching several glass jars that he recognizes from a kitchen shelf. "Cloud," she says, "you're home early."

"Yeah," is all he says back. There's a pretty blush to her skin. Her hair's piled in a loose bun on top of her head and stray tendrils are clinging to her neck.

"Oh. Well, I'm off to get Marlene from school," she says, passing by him. In her wake, he catches another whiff of chamomile. When he hears the front door close, his eyes suddenly narrow.

He takes the rest of the stairs two at a time. When he reaches the top, he heads straight to the bathroom. He smells it before he even reaches the doorway; a quick walk in and a glance at the tub would surely confirm it.

But Cloud finds he doesn't have to. He's already seeing red. Again.

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Comments are appreciated!


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